Crossing Over, Crossing Lifestyles

You get what you pay for. I paid only the taxes on my trip to India, hence, the trip there and back took about 48 hours each way, via six airports.

I’m not complaining. I read finished two books before even landing in Europe, watched three Indian movies on my ten hour flight from Brussels to Chennai and had plenty of sleep and meals and bathroom breaks along the way.

For my nearly month long travel, I brought only a carry on roller-board and a small backpack. Instead of packing heavy on the wardrobe I brought baby wipes, travel sized Kleenex tissues, hand sanitizer and toilet paper. Let it be known, I am not a germ freak. In fact, I never opened the anti-bacterial cleaner and only used the baby wipes twice. I neither brought nor wore a stitch of jewelry or makeup. I figured I’d bring back plenty of bangles, beads and dangling jewelry.

I’ve always been enamored with the colors and culture of India. Yet it seemed unreachable. I’d had my fill of Indian culture at stateside ashrams and local festivities, watching Indian documentaries and reading non-fiction books about the land of Gandhi. Finally, it was happening. I was making the leap.

I soaked it up right away, from the gate in Brussels watching the beautiful Jet Airways stewardesses. They all looked ready for a photo shoot. Like models, they invisibly changed their attire several times.

The flight may have been a freebie for me, but I felt like I was riding first class. My vegetarian meal consisted of korma, dal, curry and rice with Indian breads. The video monitor on the seat in front of me had so many options it was hard to choose.

I skipped the Bollywood channel in favor of the Regional Indian Movies. I could select from Tamil, Marathi or Malayalam, all of which were subtitled in English. Among those I watched was one that hit me hard. It was a true story. Mee Sindhutai Sapkal, was about a girl named Chindi (meaning Ragamuffin) who was betrothed at 12, mistreated by her mother-in-law and ousted for suspected infidelity. She returned to her own mother who not only wouldn’t allow her back in the house, but didn’t want to be seen with her, nor did she even ask her daughter if the slanderous remarks were true. The accused had no choice but to live on the streets as a beggar, with her newborn baby.

A real fighter, Chindi found the courage to establish a new life for herself. In the end, she changed her name to Sindhu (a River in India), fought for human rights, and established an orphanage.

So my ten hour flight to Chennai became my intro to India. The story of Chindi, hit me hard. I’d heard about the “kitchen fires” and female infanticide in India. In fact, Indian law now prohibits doctors from telling expectant parents the sex of their unborn baby.

Although I consider myself well travelled, I still had major uncertainties about traveling alone in India. My freebie fare forced me to have a layover in Chennai (Madras) from midnight until 2 p.m. the next day. Not the best of hours for a lady alone in the streets of any city. So I hired a private driver to pick me up at 4 a.m., knowing the Hindu temples open before dawn.

As soon as we hit the ground, I instinctively turned on my Blackberry, even though I knew I had no international service and the “no service” message flashed on my screen in Brussels. To my surprise, the red light is on, indicating new messages. My pleasure to have connectivity turned to discomfort when I read a message, flagged urgent, from the office. It took a long meditative sit on the hard airport seat to clear my head of the insignificant details that can run and ruin our lives in the West. Possibly that’s why I had wanted to dive into something that sets India apart: its spirituality.

The four hour wait in the airport for my driver was not too bad. I got rupees at an ATM. I plugged in my Blackberry, but my adapter was missing a converter. I’d heard this was one of the filthiest airports in the world. The seats were nicked and rusted, but there was good lighting, drinking water and a decent variety of vendors. The floor was clean enough to sit on, as some Europeans were doing.

At 3:45 a.m. I ventured past a sea of people to meet my driver and begin my first look at India.

The first temple he took me to was on a narrow street. As we approached, if I hadn’t trusted him, I’d think this was a set up. It looked like a destitute neighborhood with people sleeping on the street. There were a number of little kiosks and vendors already open. He asked me if a want a tea and drinks one waiting for the temple to open. When it’s time, he told me to leave my sandals in the car, as we walked barefoot on stones, dirt, and garbage littered walkways before we entered the cleanliness of the temple; this was a process I repeated with him another five times or so.

Each temple was lovely. Each was unique. Each had an aura within. In the end, my favorite was the first one that probably would never have made it on to a tourist map. India is indescribable. It is also unforgettable.